Cairo by Chris Womersley Page B

comforting to feel the soil under my fingernails and the trowel in my grip; it was an unimportant task, but at least it was a job I knew how to do.
    As I toiled, I detected the clink of Max’s and Edward’s teacups as they were set on the ground, the murmur of languid conversation. Mostly they sat without speaking, absorbed in their card game. Now and again I chanced a look in their direction; they paid me no heed.
    Potting the herbs was not arduous labour, but thanks to the sun, which by now had risen above the block of flats to our east, I was sweating profusely before long. I straightened up and realised, with some dismay, that the tap was located in the boiler room at the other end of the rooftop; I would have to walk right past Max and Edward to fill my watering can. In the twenty minutes it had taken me to clean out the pots and plant the seedlings, I had managed to quell my embarrassment, but the discomfort returned with vigour.
    Just then, however, Max staggered to his feet, accompanied by the frustrated curses of his opponent. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘rummy yet again, I’m afraid. I’m making a dash for
la toilette
. I have you where I want you, oh yes. And for the record, this victory will make it’ —he consulted a notebook, produced with a flourish from a trouser pocket — ‘twenty-two to twelve in my favour.’
    He then picked his way across the rooftop rather delicately, as if aboard a listing ship, and descended the set of stairs at the far side, whistling as he went.
    Still unaware of my presence, Edward lit a cigarette and leaned back with his bare ankles crossed. The smell of his cigarette mingled with those of the peppercorn tree, the sun-baked concrete and the fumes from busy Nicholson Street. Gritty and exotic, they produced a perfume that represented the city and all its potential for good and ill, the very reasons I had worked so hard to get here.
    I wandered over to the tap with my watering can. Sensing my approach, Edward made a gesture of greeting, hardly more than a flick of his cigarette, before hunching forwards to shuffle the deck of cards.
    I filled my watering can as slowly as I could, then sauntered across to him, water sloshing over my right knee. On the ground, around the two chairs and the makeshift card table, were three plates on which slumped the burned-down stubs of candles. Indeed, the remaining candle of a three-pronged candelabra near my feet still flickered, its flame almost invisible in the morning glare. Milky splodges of dried wax were spattered across the rooftop.
    Edward squeaked with surprise at my approach. He was the most extraordinary-looking person I had ever seen, and the memory of our first meeting remains vivid in my mind’s eye to this day. He was aged anywhere between thirty and forty-five. His face was thin, almost elfin, with a pointed nose, a tiny beak of a mouth, and a hank of straight black hair (greying in places) tumbling across his forehead. He was dressed most inappropriately for the summer heat in an elegant, deep-blue shirt and black trousers, althoughhis rather cadaverous demeanour was leavened by a child’s digital watch on his wrist that bore the likeness of Papa Smurf. He blinked up at me with mild distaste in his raw-blue eyes.
    â€˜Yes?’ he said, although I had not spoken.
    His teeth were uneven and discoloured, as if he had recently gobbled some vile liquorice. He gave me the impression of a sinister uncle from a fairy tale, an impression that, as I grew to know him better, became unnervingly apposite.
    â€˜Sorry to bother you,’ I said, my courage failing me even as I spoke, ‘but I couldn’t help but notice your card game.’
    â€˜I see.’ He blinked, then looked around as if attempting to locate the other, even less interesting party from which I had become detached.
    He sipped from his teacup, and I realised the teacups were not filled with tea at all but,